


life in motion

by titanomach (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen's life is a rollercoaster, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern Inquisition, Modern Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:50:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/titanomach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Cullen is a faithful man. This is the one truth he knows about himself.</i>
</p><p>or: days in the life of Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition</p>
            </blockquote>





	life in motion

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely, lovely, _lovely_ mayo
> 
> SORT-OF-EDIT: i forgot to mention that this is basically a redux of [this](http://sinoyan-archive.tumblr.com/post/109938924722/uh-ive-a-lot-of-these-its-hard-to-limit-myself), so if it looks vaguely familiar in terms of content and formatting, that's the reason
> 
> SORT-OF-EDIT 08 May 2015: some tag changes!

i.

Cullen is a faithful man. This is the one truth he knows about himself. But he is not perfect-- so he wavers, the hour after Haven.

“Maker!” hisses an injured soldier as she is laid atop a thin blanket, cradling her broken arm. Snow seeps through the cloth. The healer --a mage, one of the few adept healers they have with them, and Cullen thanks whoever may be listening for his existence-- quiets her, removes her combat helmet and smooths her pained grimace with a wash of magic.

“Rest,” he says, voice gravelly and rough. Cullen can make out tear tracks frozen onto the man’s skin. “Rest and live.” The soldier looks up at him, and their pain is shared, something common they now both have, and it’s Cullen’s fault, it’s his fault. He was the military commander-- he knew Haven was not safe, not strategic, but yet they settled, they trusted and--

He shakes his head rapidly, clumps of snow that gathered on his head falling to his shoulders. He cannot share in their grief. There is too much work to be done.

His feet carry him far from the weak pit fire and the cry of cracked voices.

- ****

The snow gentles in its tirade, and Cullen is thankful. He is better off than many others-- his boots reach up just below his knees, and the highest drifts are still a few good inches below the tops of them. His uniform is heavy, but it’s warm.

Corypheus caught them unawares --Maker _damn_ him-- and in the rush to flee, most of the escapees were ill-equipped. Jeans soaked with snow melt, sneakers and socks at times too frozen to skin to be peeled off, huddling together despite past animosities to generate as little warmth as they could on the journey up.

The mages try what they can, but they deplete quickly. The lyrium stores are lost, and Cullen feels a pitiful ache in the pit of his stomach, one that he quashes with ferocity. _Not now._

“Commander.” Cullen turns, finds Josephine brushing snow from her cheeks. He can see her trying hard not to shiver violently, even with the borrowed coat around her shoulders. Cullen can’t imagine how she can stand it in her stockings and blouse. “How are you…?”

“Fine. How is the Herald?”

Josephine’s eyes cast down. “Fine. They say she will be fine.” There is a kind of sweet relief on her face that brings a small, brief smile to Cullen’s face. “How are our troops?”

“Not good.” He sounds grave, even to his own ears. “We will have to wait a day or so to be able to move any of the injured, and that’s at the very minimum.” His gaze is dragged towards the camp, brighter now with fires and mage light. “I’ve set up a night watch, but if Corypheus strikes us before we find another suitable base--”

She shakes her head, fierce in her tone. “We must be positive. If not for ourselves then for the people.” Josephine looks away. “It is the only thing we can do... while we wait.” _For our death. For our salvation._ She does not say those words, but she doesn’t need to.

For once, he finds himself agreeing with her wholeheartedly.

- ****

Cullen should, perhaps, thank _him_. The mage at the gate whose warning saved more lives than Cullen ever could. He finds him outside of a tent, eyes careful and guarded. A small fire leaps in the palms of his hands, licking up his dark skin, dangerously close to the sleeve of his jacket. His eyes flicker to Cullen, barely a glance, before landing back to his hands. He sighs-- it’s almost shaky in sound.

“Commander. A pleasure, I assure you.” The flame disappears in a puff, and he stands. There is, somehow, no snow on him, and Cullen envies him. He holds out a hand. “Dorian Pavus of Minrathous, evil magister from Tevinter, seducer of the great, and altogether a devilish and charming individual.” He pauses. “Or so I’ve been told.”

He takes Dorian’s hand, shaking it once. He can feel the warmth through his gloves, like fire still coated his hand. “Cullen.”

“Cullen. Well, I do like the sound of that.” Dorian’s lip curls slyly. “Is there a reason why such an esteemed man such as yourself would be seen with the likes of someone like me?”

“I wanted to--” There is a tap on his shoulder. A recruit --small, elven, young-- salutes. “Yes?”

“Seeker Pentaghast and the other advisors would like to see you, ser. It’s urgent, ser.”

He runs a gloved hand through his hair, wincing when it catches roughly. “Of course. Lead the way.” He turns to say something ( _Thank you, we would have all died without you_ or _Maybe mages from Tevinter aren’t so nefarious after all_ or even _Thanks, you should be commander, I’m useless, look where I’ve gotten us_ ) but Dorian is gone, inside the tent most likely.

Cullen sighs. He can offer his thanks later, when he’s sure they won’t die on a snowy mountain.

“Commander?” The recruit’s voice is small. His helmet is too big, and his uniform hangs off him like a blanket on cold shoulders. With the rapid influx of new fighters, excited ones as well (a grand adventure for some, though Cullen can easily tell them otherwise), the Inquisition's resources were spread thin. How could they possibly fight Corypheus and his forces when their own forces were wearing the uniform equivalent of--

He grits his teeth. A fight for another hour.

“Commander?”

“Right. Coming.”

 

ii.

Skyhold is a stone giant, set atop treacherous mountains in a way that makes Cullen believe that it grew like a vine, climbing upon rocky faces and creating sanctuary. It's clear that different peoples from different times have made it their home, only to abandon it. Broken trebuchets litter the ravine below the main bridge, and a radio tower peeks up from the top of the dizzyingly tall walls.

The Herald sets her hands on her hips as they cross the bridge (crumbling stone, and some kind of newer supports keeping it up— he'll have to send a team to check on it) and flashes him a grin. The tips of her pointed ears are red with cold, but her eyes burn brighter than any flame. "Good?"

He nods, allows himself to feel relief for two heartbeats. "Good."

(When she is announced Inquisitor, there is surprise on her face, but there is also pride. He cannot think of anyone more deserving of such a title.

He cannot think of anyone more willing to bear the burden of thousands.

The Inquisitor stands tall, and her hands are steady in a way that Cullen covets.)

-

 _There is much to be done!_ The same words echoed by Josephine and Leliana, over and over until Cullen can’t hear the phrase without imagining their voices to go along with it.

There are recruits to review and train, equipment distribution to oversee, temporary reparations to be made until they can get suitable funding for more permanent fixes. He already has his men exploring the various ruins, map out every turn and report to him of the various and odd supplies and fixtures cluttering the abandoned fortress. “Three spinning wheels in the lowest floor of the library, ser,” says one of his most trusted men, “as well as five hand-held radios, all in working condition but extremely dusty.”

“Eight twin sized beds in the smaller of the standing towers, ser,” informs another, “with, ah. With a stuffed nug tucked into the blankets.”

“Er,” whispers another, this one blushing to the roots of her hair. “We don’t. Really need these for the Inquisition, ser.” She shakes the old cardboard box in her hands, and multiple somethings rattle around inside. He raises an eyebrow, reaches out to grab the box from the recruit, but she snatches it away, face turning red. “We really don’t.”

“Ah. Ah.” He clears his throat. “I see. Dismissed.”

("It’s neverending!" the Inquisitor groans one day at the war table. "I found ten working bathrooms in the crumbling tower. Ten! Who has time to fix up ten working toilets, but not patch up the damned tower with some planks?")

And, of course, because it can’t all be easy, there are nobles to appease, which to him, remains the hardest of all the tasks that have fallen to the three advisors.

“Why can’t they just-- settle without prattling on endlessly on what they _should_ have gotten?” He stacks his reports neatly on the war table. “It’s like they’ve turned into hens out in the main hall.”

Josephine does not sigh, only twirls the pen in her hand. “Hens who have influence over the hen house and parts of the farm, as well. These are dangerous people, Commander.” Her smile is mischievous. “Chickens are relentless beings.”

 

-

Dorian is engrossed in a book when he visits the library. Fluorescent lights hum, white and harsh, and his cough echoes around the near empty room. Above him, Leliana’s foot steps still sound, and her birds (damnably loud) still caw.

Dorian looks up, and a smile graces his face. “Well, _hello_. I must admit, I didn’t expect this at,” he glances outside and is met with reaching black, dotted with distant lights from below, “whatever time it is now.” Dorian drums his beringed fingers against the arm of the chair; they are easily the most expensive things he wears, but that's not saying much. He's impeccable, seemingly without trying. Cullen is dingy compared to him, worn and exhausted.

“I, ah.” Cullen clears his throat, straightens out his uniform, the dark red of it stark against his bare fingers. “I never had the chance to thank you until now. We would have never made it here without your efforts.”

“A late apology is better than none. Please, _do_ continue on how much you appreciate me. _Joking_ ,” he adds when Cullen gives him an incredulous look. “You Fereldans, always taking everything so seriously. You would have thought I fed a mabari chocolate.” Cullen is not sure how scandalized his face is, but it must be very much so if it is enough to illicit a smile from Dorian. “ _Joking_ , Commander. No beloved pets were harmed in the making of this comment.”

Cullen coughs again, looking at his boots, impossibly scuffed now. “Ah. Right. I will just, ah. Leave you to your duties.”

“You certainly could,” Dorian shrugs carelessly.

“Thank you. Again.”

“You are most terribly welcome. _Again_.”

(He later hits his forehead against his table, wondering where his limited capability to hold decent conversations vanished to.)

-

“How are you feeling?” Cassandra’s concern is blunt. “How bad is it?” The sun stretches out behind the both of them, painting Skyhold with its setting. The neck of her shirt is sweaty, and strands of loose hair stick to her forehead; he doesn’t know how she does it, training from dawn to dusk.

“Under control,” he says, and he barely believes it himself. “It’s-- it could be-- it’s not as bad. As it could be.” He swallows hard, his throat dry but not aching for water. “I’m fine.”

Cassandra’s eyes-- they don’t soften, but something in them reaches out to him, soldier to soldier. She puts her hand on his shoulder, and he wishes he could take some of her resolve, her strength, and use it to sustain himself. He holds his hands tight together, willing them to still.

“I am glad to hear it.” The weight of her hand disappears, and the door closes with a gentleness uncharacteristic of her.

-

The soldier scurries away right after he drops off reports before Cullen can thank him. Leliana snickers quietly behind her hand. “There goes another one.”

“Oh, dear.” Josephine stares at the man’s retreating back. “What does that make the total?”

“Total?” he inquires. “Of what?”

“How do they function during training? The Commander is not in his uniform then.”

“Perhaps they don’t.” Leliana sniffs. “Maybe Cassandra should lead training.”

“What are you two talking about?” He looks to the both of them.

“Hush, Commander. Just stay as you are.” Leliana tosses a piece, one of hers, onto the table. It knocks down of Josephine’s, and she rights it. “Though you may want use a little less mousse in the morning. It makes you more respectable. Trust me.”

Josephine giggles before coughing herself into silence.

(He cautiously takes Leliana’s advice the next day. A few of the soldiers are unreasonably distracted.)

 

iii.

Mia, to his amazement, still manages to track him. A scout, one of Leliana’s, drops it off at his desk in the early morn, when the sun hasn’t yet broken through the mountains and his breath still frosts inside his office.

A written letter this time, not an email, and her anger seems to translate better on paper, pen ink darkening on certain words.

( _Cullen_ , it reads. _Next time you almost die, please send proper word next time so all three of us, not including mother, can come and kick your ass._ Mia goes into rambling then, but at the end, the words are spaced far, as if she had trouble formulating her words. Tentative to write down her true meaning. Cullen can relate; they are, after all, siblings.

_Come home soon, in one piece. Please. Love, Mia_

_P.S. See how easy that is? The wonders of modern postal service!)_

-

The days are shorter but grow so much longer, and with every beat of his heart, the hunger for it grows. He eyes flicker to the drawer handle.

It would be so easy, over and done with one swallow. He can see its gentle blue behind his eyelids, singing, beckoning.

If he just reaches-- a little further--

He draws away as if stung, but its lullaby never stops.

( _Weak, weak, why are you so weak?_ he berates himself as he angrily pulls his uniform on. _There is no room for weakness here. None._ )

-

“Your victories would be more impressive if I didn’t catch you sliding my pawns onto your lap.”

Dorian laughs, and it’s the kinder of the two-- the other is harsh, torn from his throat as if unwilling. “A victory is a victory, you’re just bitter.”

“And the means on how a victory is achieved means nothing?”

Dorian’s tone turns thoughtful as he resets the pieces. Cullen watches as sure fingers nudge the black king into place. “It would depend on which side of the war you’re standing on. A winner could care less. The history books would call it innovation or something equally positive sounding. Rally the people onto your side, and they eventually forget the means.  A loser,” he hums for a moment, “well. There lies the problem.”

“And I suppose I’m the problem,” Cullen jokes.

Dorian kicks him lightly under the table, immaculate boot --the latest fashion, Leliana had said-- against Cullen’s still mud-smothered one. He smiles, and Cullen’s heart twists strangely. “Only if you don’t start playing.”

-

“Who let Iron Bull use the printer to print multiple pictures of _dragons_?”

“We were told they were for, ah, educational purposes, ser.” The soldier flushes faintly but maintains a look of composure. “We will not make the same mistake again.” Her voice drops a tone lower, obviously not meant for his ears. “How anyone could masturbate to a Ferelden Frostback is _beyond_ me.”

-

“I suppose the Inquisitor sent you.” Dorian’s voice is dull, heavy with alcohol.

“You suppose incorrectly.” He drops himself in Dorian’s booth, gently prying away the beer bottle in the other man’s hands. He takes it with ease.

Dorian’s eyes blearily follow his movements, red and puffy. He rubs at his eyes. “It’s a good thing that i invest in waterproof eyeliner,” he mutters.

“Dorian--”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “I don’t want-- I don’t want your pity, or anyone else’s. _Oh, Dorian, are you alright? You don’t look alright, are you remembering when your father tried to change you, so like a coward, you boarded the first train out of Tevinter at the middle of the night? You are? Oh, I’m so fucking sorry, I--_ ” He breaks off. “I knew. That when everyone found out, this was what I would be reduced to. A fucking charity case.”

“You’re not-- you’re not anyone’s charity case, Dorian.”

“Then stop looking at me like I’m going to break, dammit!” He slams his fist down on the table, and other bar-goers glance at them. “I know I’m weak, but I don’t need you to look at me like I’m going to-- going to break down again--”

“You forgave your father.” This stops Dorian short.

“What?”

“You forgave him. Perhaps not for everything, but-- but you still…” Cullen struggles with his words. “You’re stronger than I am, Dorian. Forgiveness is not easy.” _I would know_ , he does not add.

“No. No, it’s not.” Dorian sighs heavily. “I apologize, I did not mean to--”

Cullen holds up a hand. “You don’t need to apologize if you’ve committed no wrong.” Slowly, he bumps his hand against Dorian’s fist. “You’re no charity case to any of us, Dorian. We care about you.”

Dorian laughs tearily. “People caring about me? How novel.”

He knocks their knees together. “Believe it, would you?”

“Getting a little easier to.”

Cullen smiles. “Good.”

 **  
** ****

iv.

Cullen can’t think, can’t push air fast enough into his lungs. He dodges the demon’s swipe, throwing himself forward. He gasps as claws grab at his leg, scrabbles at crumbling stone before finding purchase.

Around him, Adamant _breaks_.

(At first glance, he cannot tell whether the fallen body next to him is a Grey Warden or an Inquisition soldier. Blank gaze as they stare up into a starless sky, hand closed around a dagger-- out of ammunition, down to their last hope. He turns away savagely, feels the claws close around flesh. He does not want to know-- he is a coward, and he doesn’t want to know.)

The demon lets out a triumphant-- shriek, something _unholy_ that jumpstarts his bones. He rips his leg from its grasp, lunges away as it screams and comes for him again. Before it can jump at him, it wails anew before disintegrating, black ashes blowing away as if there was wind around them and not just choking stone dust.

Dorian is bloody. And furious. Cullen can smell his magic, the smell of an oncoming storm and hot summers. “Get up, come on,” he snaps, awkwardly half-carrying, half-dragging Cullen as he keeps his staff in one hand. He hears someone making a whimpering, pained sound, and he hopes desperately to Andraste that it’s not _him_.

He doesn’t look back at his legs trailing pitifully behind them. “Drop me here,” he gasps. “The Inquisitor-- Dorian, the Inquisitor--”

“Can survive. Is alive. Is not injured like a certain commander.”

He swats weakly at Dorian’s hands (gloved, dark leather, caked in stone dust and spattered with blood) as he rasps “She needs you more than I do. The Inquisition can survive without me.”

Dorian’s laugh is sharp, derisive. “Do you always downplay your own worth, or is that simply something you do with me? Charming.”

“Dorian. Go. I’ll be fine.” He’s not quite sure how much he believes the words coming out of his own mouth.

Dorian gives him a hard look, searching, needing. “Promise you’ll live,” he says at last. “Promise, and I’ll go.”

Cullen swallows, throat dry and scratchy. _I promise_ , he would have said if he was a braver, more daring man, if he could keep his promises well. Words had a sort of permanence-- once said, one could not take them back. They were carried by the wind, far into the deep reaches of the world, eternal.

Cullen is not a brave man, not a daring man.

He reaches out for Dorian’s hand and squeezes. The movement, slight as it is, jostles his injured leg and he bites his lip till it, too, bleeds. (A part of his mind notes that he could die here, and that the feel of Dorian’s hand in his could be his last good memory. He tells that part of his mind to shut up.)

He does not promise, but it is good enough.

(He lives-- it will not scar prettily, no. But there are no such things as pretty scars.

Dorian whistles long and low when he sees Cullen rebandage it in his office. The lights only serve to make it look more sickly, darkening healing flesh. “It only makes you more rugged,” he assures. “Quite the catch, as always, commander.”

Cullen laughs, ragged and free.)

-

“Cullen,” whispers the Inquisitor as she sits up in the chair opposite him. The Herald’s Rest is loud, drinks flowing freely. Lavellan nudges the piña colada with the tips of her fingers. “How do you-- everyone says that the sacrifice was necessary. But I-- I can’t help but think that if I-- Alistair could have been saved. I could have saved him, I know it.” She draws her knees up to her chest.

“There are--” He licks his dry lips, bites them. “There are sacrifices. That are made. That will never quiet within us.” He stretches his arm across the table, lets his hand rest near hers, an offering of shared grief and comfort. “They will never allow themselves to be forgotten.”

(Her eyes look up at him, and there are no tears, but-- it is a look he knows well. He sees it, sometimes, when he glances in a mirror.)

“Lavellan. You are a good woman. Sacrifices such as these will make you doubt that.” Her fingers ghost over his, never settling. “Please, just-- know that you have all of my respect, Inquisitor.”

She gives him a watery smile. “Inquisitor. I’m still not sure I deserve such a title.” She sips at her drink. “I don’t think I ever will.” Her tone turns soft. An offering of shared grief and comfort. “But, perhaps I could deserve the title of friend?”

“It would be-- I would be greatly honored to call you such.”

Her hand settles, warm over his knuckles.

******-  
**

“Hawke has left for Weisshaupt,” informs Leliana as she reviews the map with close scrutiny, moving her pieces to mark her scouts. They are spread wide, red push pins marking almost every corner of Ferelden and Orlais.

“I saw him leave in the truck. How was he? I, ah, didn’t have the chance to talk to him.” He could barely stop shaking enough to roll out of bed. The metal rungs of the ladder leading to his office felt as if they would rattle out of place.

He does not have to look up from the war table to know that her look has turned understanding. “The last report I got from the infirmary said that he had stopped flirting with everything with legs. Including the tables.”

Cullen nods, sigh escaping him. “I never quite agreed with Hawke on everything, but I cannot deny he has done great and good things. I suppose I should have wished him luck in his endeavours.”

Leliana only hums, brushing short strands out of her face. “Do take care of yourself, Cullen,” she says as she walks towards the door, dark hood hiding her face. “The Inquisition needs its commander, and the Inquisitor, her friend.”

(She knows. She knows, and she does not look upon him in pity.)

****-** **

“You are a fine commander,” Cassandra had said, chin tilted defiantly as if she dared him to say otherwise.

“You don’t need lyrium,” Lavellan had said, voice gentle, hand on his shoulder.

He drags his nails over the skin of his neck, over his collarbone. A dull fire creeps through his veins, an itch that races under his skin and leaves it feverish.

Need and want are two different things, and it terrifies him that the song warps and meshes them together.

-

“Consider me offended, commander!” says Dorian on a day that is Not Good. The other man’s footfalls on the ladder ring in his ears, each one leaving him dazed. “Three days of standing me up like I’m some easily replaceable date. For shame. No, don’t apologize,” Dorian interrupts when he opens his mouth to answer. “I guess I’ll just have to make up for lost time by gracing you with my company.”

“I know what you’re doing, Dorian.” His voice rasps in his throat. Dorian hands him a bottle of water, which he drinks down like a dying man. (Stray streams of water run down his face, onto his shirt. He shivers, and a hand that is not his wipes the trail and tugs his covers higher over his neck.)

Dorian raises an eyebrow, and Maker, he’s missed that look, missed Dorian. “Are you going to do anything about it?”

“No.”

“Are you refusing my presence?”

A pause. “No.”

“Then it looks like I’m here for the rest of the day. Do try to act excited.” A cool hand smoothes sweaty hair back and rests against his cheek. His bed dips (the sheets scratch on his skin, and he hisses) as Dorian’s weight settles heavily next to him.

“You don’t need to do this.”

“And you don’t need to do everything on your own,” Dorian retorts. “And yet, here we are.”

( _Thank you_ , he should have said. _You are a better man than I_ , he should have said. “Hush,” Dorian murmurs when he tilts his head to blink at him blearily. “Don’t. Just rest, and we can get whatever silly formalities there are squared away later.”

The last thing he feels before letting the darkness take him is a press of dry lips against his forehead.)

-

He wakes, and he is not fine. He wakes, and he wants to live. And, perhaps, for the first time in months, breathing feels like breathing, and not wishing that the air in his lungs was replaced with something bluer, sweeter, and far more alluring and dangerous.

Dorian sleeps next to him, legs awkwardly tangled with his, head tilted back on the headboard. Soft snores slip out every so often, and when Cullen jostles his legs, he wakes with an almighty snort.

Cullen can’t help it. He laughs so hard he falls from the bed, so hard that his stomach aches with something other than hunger. “Maker’s breath, that actually happened. I witnessed it, and it actually happened.”

Dorian’s face is briefly mortified, but even he cracks a smile. He throws a pillow at Cullen as he gasps for breath on the floor. “Not a word.”

“Oh, oh, there will be words.” He wipes away tears. “To Varric. And the Inquisitor. Possibly Josephine and Leliana.”

Dorian throws another pillow at him, his laughter and Dorian’s loud “Don’t you dare!” filling the tower. Cullen can’t help but feel as if something has clicked into place, but Dorian throws his blanket at him, and the thought escapes.

 

v.

“No. This is ridiculous.”

“The less you squirm,” reminds Lavellan, “the quicker the fitting will go.” He winces as a pin pricks his skin, and the tailor makes an apologetic sound around the multiple other pins in his mouth.

“If it makes you feel any better, Cullen,” pipes up Josephine, “you will look very dashing.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, no.”

The two laugh at him, sharing a look that-- oh. He had suspected before, but now, it is quite obvious. Lavellan catches his raised eyebrow and smile, and the tips of her ears flush.

(“You and Josephine?”

“Yes.”

He elbows her lightly in the ribs. “It’s a good match. Very, ah, cute.”

She slaps him on the arm, but her smile is pleased. “Please don’t. You don’t see me embarrassing you and Dorian.” He stumbles as he walks.

“ _What?_ ”

“What? It’s not as if this is new news--”

“ _What?_ ”

“Creators, Cullen, everyone can see you two flirt out in the garden, it’s not as if everyone is oblivious as-- You know what? Let’s drop the subject.” Lavellan shakes her head. “I cannot believe this.”)

-

A cake explodes on his desk, covering everything in icing and chocolate.

He blames Sera.

(It was, indeed, Sera. His whole office smells like burnt cake batter for the next two weeks.)

-

“You clean up quite well, color me surprised,” says Dorian as he sidles up next to him, subtly deflecting a stray hand that was creeping towards his ass. He flicks the tassels on Cullen’s epaulette. “Your hair is looking rather stiff, though.”

Dorian’s suit fits him well. He looks as comfortable in those as much as he is in his ridiculous sweaters. Cullen wishes he could feel the same; he feels like he’s choking under all the unnecessary pomp. Medals and gold buttons and sharply pressed pants and _too much hair mousse_.

An arm snakes around his middle, and he jumps, ready to again insist that _No, madame, I am not available to either you or your daughters_ , please but Dorian gives him a sly smirk that makes his heart jump oddly. He can feel his warmth, smell the stupid cologne that he insists on wearing daily. Cullen feels his skin warm and his face redden.

“Would you excuse us?” Dorian says to the crowd of ever-growing nobles. “The commander and I have...business to attend to. Very important Inquisition matters.” He steers Cullen away from the crowd, and he can feel their eyes trained on him.

“Was there something the Inquisitor needed?” he asks when Dorian leads them outside. The air is cool, blessedly so, smelling faintly of flowers and smoke from further out in the city.

“Not as of yet. But we can’t have all the nobles have a grab at your ass, can we?”

“You seem to be maneuvering through them quite well.”

“Why, are you jealous?” Dorian laughs at Cullen’s scowl. “Tevinter parties were quite similar with equal chances of assassination and murder, though I am quite disappointed at the lack of blood magic. Made things exciting, you know.”

“Remind me to never be invited to one.”

“Oh, commander.” Dorian pats his arm. “They would devour you.” His eyes glint with mischief. “In more ways than one.”

Cullen can’t help it-- he coughs, cheeks burning. Dorian rubs him on the back. “Are you quite alright?”

“Yes.” He coughs again. “Um.”

Dorian laughs easily. “Has anyone told you that you are precious? Maker, they’d eat you alive.”

“Dorian,” a voice hisses. Lavellan pokes her head around the door comically. “Let’s go.”

He nods at her before turning to Cullen. “Until later, commander.”

“Good luck.” Dorian saunters away, and Lavellan gives him a curious stare, lips inching into a smile. She’s off before he can ask.

(At the end of the night, he collapses heavily onto a marble bench, sighing into his hands.

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” Dorian drawls as he approaches him. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I think I’ve been married off to some Orlesian noble’s son. And daughter.”

“To both of them? I never would have expected it from you.” Dorian sits next to him, and their legs brush. “You are just full of surprises. The good kind, mind you, not the ‘you were practicing blood magic this whole time?’ kind.” A hand on his knee, warm. “Care to dance? Almost being killed by demons is dreadfully boring.”

“I can’t-- I can’t dance.” He’s not even sure he can get into position right.

“Of course you can. Not well, most likely, but there are always brownie points in trying.”

“Dorian, I--”

“Or we could stay right here, canoodle under the stars, laugh at the ridiculous masks that people are so fond of wearing.” Dorian leans against his side, and his heart thrums, an erratic badump-badump. He blushes.

“I would, ah. I would like that.”

“Even the canoodling part?”

“Er--”

“Joking.” A traitorous thought flits across Cullen’s mind that made him wish that he had said yes. Dorian leans in to rest his chin on Cullen’s shoulder, and Cullen wants to kiss him senseless.

 _Oh_ , he thinks to himself.)

-

“You are well?” Cassandra asks.

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

He weighs the word in his mind and finds he does not doubt it. “Yes.”

Cassandra smiles.

-

“I cannot believe this,” says Leliana once the Inquisitor and Morrigan have left to view the Eluvian. “I told her about the velvet, and what does she do once I’m not around her? She starts wearing velvet.”

Josephine pats her arm. “Here are the requests you asked for.”

Leliana’s pout turns into a wide grin. “How many of them are there?”

“Including the married ones? Forty-nine.”

Cullen narrows his eyes. “If that’s what I think it is--”

“How do you feel about attending Marquis Remy’s birthday?”

“Leliana, no.”

“Or how about Duchess Emilie’s daughter’s tea party? She’s nine, but I heard that her mother is quite enamored with you.”

“Leliana. _No_.”

 ****-

“So… You and Dorian?”

“We’re not together!” _But you could be_ , says his bastard of a mind. _And Dorian doesn’t seem like he’d terribly mind if you asked_. “Shut up,” he hisses aloud. “Not you,” he assures the Inquisitor.

Lavellan throws up her hands. “He offered to canoodle!”

“How do you know about that?”

“Ha! So it’s true!”

He groans, thunks his head against his desk. “Even if Dorian were _mildly_ interested in me, which he isn’t, he deserves better than me.”

Lavellan is silent for a moment. “He doesn’t think that.”

He looks up. “And how do you know that?”

“Just-- shoo! Get up, go talk to him, you-- you noodle!”

(He does not talk to Dorian about-- _it_. He avoids Lavellan’s disappointed, pointed looks from across the war table.)

-

He nearly crashes into Dorian on the way to the library, but they right each other, laughing. “Well, hello to you, too,” he says, dusting off Dorian’s shoulders.

Dorian smiles, and Cullen swallows. Oh, Maker. “Just the man I was looking for, actually.” He holds the lapels of Cullen’s uniform between his hands, straightening them out. “I have been told that there is a matter that needs to be urgently discussed.”

He gulps against his better judgement, and Dorian’s smile widens. “Lavellan?” he guesses.

“Oh yes, _Lavellan_. She had _quite_ a lot to say. So did Josephine. Cassandra. Varric. Bull. Cole. Vivienne as well, oddly enough. As they put it, I needed to do something before they could, and I quote, ‘hold an intervention, creators, you two are frustrating.’”

“I-- Dorian--” He shuts his mouth before he can say more, before he can hope more. Dorian leans in, and he is so close, Cullen can smell his toothpaste and whatever he puts into his hair.

“Cullen.” His name, said centimetres from his lips. “Was-- what they said, was it true? Or will I make things infinitely awkward if I back you into this wall and kiss you until we’re both jelly-kneed?”

Cullen laughs nervously, feels his stomach flip. _Oh Maker, oh Maker, sweet sweet Maker_. He finds whatever courage he has and speaks. “I would be. Extremely disappointed. If you didn’t back me into this wall and kissed me until we’re both jelly-kneed.”

Dorian grins and does exactly that.

(“Told you.”

“Lavellan, you’ve said that _sixteen times_.”)

  
****

vi.

“Corypheus is without an army, and now, without most of his agents. We will have to strike at him before he has the chance to strike at us."

"But when?" Lavellan swipes her tongue over a ragged bottom lip. "When will we strike?"

Leliana's voice is grave. "Soon. In the next three weeks, preferably. A month at latest. We will need time to collect information, amass our contacts, ready our troops." She looks up, and there is nothing but steel, tempered and weathered and standing, in her eyes.

("I don't think I'm ready for this, Josie," Lavellan whispers when she thinks Cullen is out of earshot. He hurries away, words echoing in his ears.

He is not ready either.)

-

“A month? I can do quite a lot in a month,” Dorian smirks as he presses Cullen into the bookshelf. The metal shelves dig into his back, and he stifles a low groan when the other man gently bites his neck.

“Not the point,” he gasps. “Dorian--” He takes Dorian by the shoulders. “I want-- I need to tell you that I--” _Care for you. Love you. Would be devastated if anything happened to you._

Dorian kisses him hard, kisses him until he’s without breath and all thoughts have narrowed to _Dorian_ and _more_. “Don’t,” he breathes when they break apart. “Don’t say anything that suspiciously sounds like goodbye. Do you hear me?”  

Cullen nods, and Dorian rests his forehead on Cullen’s shoulder. “No goodbyes. Understood.”

Dorian kisses him again, softer this time. Cullen wraps his arms around him, finding comfort in his warmth, in his weight as he settles against him.

-

“I’ve never had a whole month before,” Dorian says dryly as he holds Cullen in his arms. They’re cramped on the armchair, with Dorian awkwardly straddling him, but neither of them can find it in themselves to care. “Now that I have one, I don’t know what to do with it.”

Cullen makes a questioning sound, and Dorian cups his face. “None of my...relationships have ever lasted so long. One night stands mostly. Easy to do, easy to forget. You’re a little difficult to forget, amatus.” A thumb strokes under his eye, and Cullen’s eyes flutter shut. “A whole month? I don’t know whether to spend it holding you or fearing if I’ll have the chance to hold you when the month is up.”

“You will.” Cullen kisses him. “You will see me after this month is up. I promise.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You will. No goodbyes.”

“You’re right. Sorry, rule breaking Vint, forgive my manners.” Dorian shifts and untangles himself so he’s half-laying, half-sitting on him. “No goodbyes.”

-

vii.

Cullen holds onto Dorian like a man dying, buries his face into the crook of his neck. “I-- When you didn’t come out of the Temple the way you came in, I--” His throat closes up around his words, words that he should say, should tell, but he finds they will not leave his mouth. “For a moment, I believed you had--” _Died._

Cullen had feared the worst, stilling him amidst echoes of gunfire and the crackle of red lyrium. He had feared the worst when the Corypheus and the dragon flew into the sky, feared the worst when the last of Corypheus’ forces were vanquished.

He still fears the worst. It is not easy to think he may lose Dorian again.

Dorian says nothing, only cupping Cullen’s face and resting his forehead against his.

(That night is quiet and tender, soft kisses and touches in the dark. “Cullen,” Dorian murmurs against his lips. “Amatus.” A tentative hand trails down his stomach, hesitates on the waistband of his pants. “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” he whispers, urges. “ _Yes_.” Cullen kisses him, and Dorian kisses back, fumbling hands hurried in their exploration, rushed and quick and perfect.

For a moment, Cullen’s mind is wiped a blissful, merciful white.)

-

“It’s a little loud in there now.” The Inquisitor taps her head, takes a deep breath, tugs her jacket closer around her shoulders. “They never seem to want to stop giving advice once provoked. Morrigan doesn't know what she's missing, but I don't she'd want to.”

“I wouldn’t mind having a personal council sometimes.”

“Oh?” She pats Cullen’s shoulder. “I think you’re just fine on your own. You could stand to listen to your head more.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

-

He prays to an absent god and his equally absent bride in each of his breaths. _Let this be enough_ , he thinks as he watches the next guard rotation move into place. _Let us take pride in our victories_ , he thinks as he passes the drawer without acknowledging the song that calls from within. _Help us bear our grief in our losses_ , he thinks as he signs the letters that will shatter families.

(“Come sleep,” Dorian murmurs against his neck. “Beauty sleep is important for everyone, even an effortlessly handsome man such as yourself.”

Cullen hums. “In a moment.”

“I suppose if you’re being stubborn, I’ll just have to stay with you. Honestly,” he teases, “the things I do for a pretty face.”

Cullen looks at him, grey eyes and sleep-messed hair and familiar smile, and his heart twists and twists until he thinks it will burst.

 _And protect him. Please._ )

 

viii.

Dorian comes back from the Valley of Sacred Ashes covered in stone dust, old mortar, and dragon’s blood. This does not, however, stop Cullen from running to him and lifting him into a bone breaking hug. This does not stop him from kissing him until they’re both laughing and _Maker_ , since when were they on the ground?

“No goodbyes?”

Dorian grins. “Not a single one to be seen.”

-

They sit on the ramparts, backs touching cold stone but Cullen couldn’t be warmer. Behind them, there is noise unending-- from what he can hear, they're breaking out the air horns and climbing the radio tower. There is laughter, and drunk singing, and chanting, loud and without sense.

“When we started the Inquisition, I did not think I would end up here at its end.”

Dorian snorts. “With me?”

“You weren’t in the original picture, no.” Cullen takes his hand (without his rings, skin soft against his own) “For a while, I didn’t think that I would be _here_. Alive and breathing.”

“But you are.”

“But I am.”

“When I joined the Inquisition, I didn’t think I’d be utterly in love with a puppy of a man.”

“But you are?”

“But I am.” Dorian grins up at him, bright and brilliant.

-

Cullen is a faithful man. This is the one truth he knows about himself. He supposes, now, that this is a lie. His truths are known between breathless kisses, and friendly nudges, and whispered prayers to the darkened sky.

(This is not the end, no, not by far. Dorian takes his hand as the sun overpowers the night, fingers of dawn reaching, brushing, making a day brighter than any Cullen has seen before.

No, this is not the end. This is only his beginning.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks!


End file.
